


Felix Culpa

by backinblack (ginandironic)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginandironic/pseuds/backinblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You ne'er had that far to fall to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felix Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006. For lightforotis in fulfillment of the Norrington ficathon.

He was once a good man.

There were better men, undoubtedly; those who did more than stare down the face of danger, who rushed head-long into it. Perhaps the measure of a _great_ man was striving to save not only the helpless and the good, but the sinful and the wicked as well. But James Norrington had only been a good man. He had followed the rules and hoped for a new world, a better world, when a great man would have flouted the rules for a set of his own, would have paved a path towards utopia if it meant paving it in blood.

Now, though, now James Norrington was nothing. He was not a Commodore. He was least of all a good man, and most of all a sinner. In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of God himself, James Norrington was nothing.

And, at the moment, he was very drunk.

The bottle was empty. He held it up and tipped it, stupidly, so he could stare up the neck. A few stinging drops landed directly in his right eye and he swore, scrubbing with dirty fingers. His eye felt red and watery. Irritated, he tossed the bottle down and watched it roll across the scarred tabletop, sliding over the edge and landing with a glassy tink. It continued to roll across the floorboards, stopping only when it connected with--

Jack Sparrow's boot.

His mood before was drunk, despondent and embittered. Now it was positively lamentable.

Sparrow -- his _Captain_, a snide and altogether dismayed voice in his head chimed -- bent over and retrieved the empty bottle. He sauntered over to the table James sat at and set it upright with a flourish. "Gone through yer rations already, Commodore?"

James said nothing.

"I'd say I'm impressed but yer not exactly drinking for sport." He took a seat, smile flashing gold.

"Shouldn't you be elsewhere--" he was going to say 'drinking yourself into a stupor' but the words did not seem well-chosen given the circumstances "--stealing from the infirm or… seducing virgins, _Captain_?" He was aware how surly he sounded, not to mention how obvious he was being. He wasn't sober enough to care.

"Ah, I believe yer referring to meself and the charming Miss Swann? Er, soon to be Mrs Turner, that is." Wisely, James managed to hold his tongue. Sparrow leaned forward and grinned wider, face a mockery of true delight. "Do I detect a note of jealousy? I assure you, Commodore Norrington, that me true intentions have nothing to do with virgins."

James shook his head, scowling. "You're despicable."

"Nay, mate, I'm incorrigible! And anyway, there's nowhere I'd rather be than here with you, Commodore."

"Stop calling me that." It was a knee-jerk reaction. But it was difficult not to snap when Sparrow's smirking mouth spilled out his former title with such palpable mockery.

"Oh, I keep forgetting. A'right, Former-Commodore. Might I ask what brought on yer inebriated state? I only ask 'cuz I fear for the rest of the rum."

"I'm lamenting my fall from grace," he said, not entirely sarcastic.

Sparrow barked a laugh. Oddly enough, it seemed genuine. "Horseshit. You ne'er had that far to fall to begin with."

"I beg your pardon?"

"True enough I never took you for a drunkard before -- and you wouldn't have been caught dead without yer wig and a shave -- but you were always as much a brigand as me."

Ire rose in James' blood, the first real swell of anger he'd experienced since before the last few months of sorrow and defeat. To be compared to Sparrow, to a lawless pirate with more tattoos than he had sense. Words began to form on his tongue, vitriolic and designed to put Sparrow in his place, but the man did not let him speak when he saw the look on James' face.

"Navy men kill the same as pirates, mate. First things first. Wearin' a uniform don't make it right." Sparrow's eyes went grim and dull in the lamplight. "And you, you ain't in this mess 'cuz fate dealt you a bad hand, you're in it because avarice sent you in after me own self through a hurricane and you killed yer men."

It did not immediately occur to him to wonder why someone like Sparrow would know the word avarice. It did occur to him to wonder why the remark stung as much as it did. He considered throwing a punch but he was actually seeing three of Sparrow, the effects of drunkenness, and instead looked at his own filthy hands on the tabletop.

It was silent. James knew in the morning he would recall what Sparrow said and the world would make sense in an ugly sort of way. A loud thunk caught his attention and he looked up; all three Sparrows smiled down at him humorlessly.

"Drink up." A fresh bottle of rum was now on the table in front of him. When James made no move to take it up, Sparrow uncorked it and took a swig. "Face it, mate, yer pining over Elizabeth same as me, and it's true that naughty men like us ne'er get the girl."

"I am not pining over Elizabeth," he muttered, but took the bottle from Sparrow's beringed fingers all the same. The rum washed over his tongue, numb as it was, and burned a path down his throat. The feeling was not cathartic like it had been in the beginning. It was possible, he reflected, to drink until the drinking did not matter anymore.

He was never overly fond of spirits. Those under his command who indulged while on duty were severely punished. Aside from grog at meals and the occasional swig to keep warm on a cold night, James never drank. Even brandy offered at social events was usually declined. Now, though, he made up for lost time and considered it his obligation as a -- pirate.

"Drink up me hearties," he said darkly, studying his distorted reflection in the bottle.

"Yo ho," Sparrow agreed.

\---

That night, he dreamt. He passed out, actually, in a very uncomfortable position in his hammock. In his dream he could smell the tart sea air, taste the salt on his tongue. In his dream he held Elizabeth in his arms as his wife while Turner languished elsewhere, probably hammering away in his forge. In his dream his men were alive -- or maybe they were dead but so was Sparrow, pierced at the opposite end of James' blade. In his dream he was still a Commodore and everything else fell away under the weight of that title.

When he awoke the next morning it was to someone banging a pot and shouting, to a lingering headache and sense of guilt he couldn't quite place.

He made himself useful scrubbing planks and performing other monotonous tasks. The Pearl was a sturdy ship, she needed little maintenance. It seemed Sparrow was capable of keeping track of that much, at least. Around noon he watched Jack with Elizabeth -- _I assure you, Commodore Norrington, that me true intentions have nothing to do with virgins_ took a much more sinister tone when he saw how she looked when thinking of Sparrow.

"So you never wondered how your latest fiance ended up on the Flying Dutchman in the first place?"

And really, his estimation of her as a thinking woman went down when he saw how easily she was blinded by his swaying, silver-tongued eccentricity. People were fools for Captain Jack Sparrow, he thought, a twinge of something unpleasant in his stomach. Including Beckett, by the looks of those Letters. It seemed he was foolish enough to strike pacts with the devil.

Later he comforted himself in another bottle of rum (plenty to spare since there was such a surprisingly light crew), and the thought that Will Turner was a far better man than Sparrow.

"To naughty men like us!" He raised the bottle, toasting the absent Captain. Gibbs looked at him like he was mad.

\---

"I thought I'd find you here," Sparrow said.

"Where else would I be?" He was halfway through his first bottle of the night. No one had made any mention thus far of his blatant surpassing of rations, a fact James was very appreciative of.

"Above deck, in the head, perhaps languishing in the land of dreams--"

"It was rhetorical, Sparrow."

"Aye, that it was." He took a seat next to him instead of across and yanked the bottle from James' grasp. This was soon to become a ritual if James didn't put some sort of a stop to it. Maybe he would begin drinking in secluded corners or at night in his hammock. He managed to stay sober throughout the day and only when relieved of his duties took to the bottle.

He handed back the bottle and James drained the rest in a few swallows. Sparrow gave a whistle at the feat, trivial as it was, and James wiped his mouth with the back of his grimy shirtsleeve. He didn't have to say anything; Sparrow got up and grabbed another bottle, uncorking it with no small amount of fanfare and plunking it on the table. The charity was puzzling; but then perhaps Sparrow might enjoy watching James steadily drink himself to death.

They passed the bottle back and forth for a while, not speaking. A few crewmen wandered in and out of the galley, fetching late-night victuals or grog. James knew virtually none of their names, a contrast to his time spent on ships in service of the crown; then he made it a point to know the name and situation of every man who walked the decks.

"As long as we're just sitting here," Sparrow suddenly said, turning slightly to grin at James deviously, "why don't we make some sport of it?"

He held out his hand for the bottle and Sparrow passed it over. "What sort of sport?"

"A drinkin' game! What other sport is there, mate?"

James snorted a laugh. "Predictable. And I'm not your mate."

"So you say, but if you'll notice I seem to be the only one enjoying yer company."

"Indeed. Which begs the question as to why you seem so intent on disrupting my privacy -- pardon, enjoying my company?"

Sparrow seemed to consider this. "Why, because you do me the same favor, o'course." He said it sincerely enough, but his eyes dark twinkled with something akin to mirth.

James found the sentiment was contagious; he listened to the rules of the drinking game Sparrow put forth in seriousness. He was halfway through a bottle of bitter, syrupy rum, the likes of which he'd never experienced before, when his head started to spin dreadfully. He wondered, belatedly, if indulging Sparrow was the best idea he'd ever had.

\---

He woke up. It wasn't to the customary banging of pots and pans, nor was it to the rhythm of his body's natural clock. He simply woke. It took him a long while to opens his eyes, and when he did his head went from feeling slightly fuzzy to pounding so hard he thought he might vomit where he lie.

Where he lie, then. Not in a hammock, but in a cushioned bed that, under different circumstances, he would have greatly enjoyed.

He sat up in the bed and swung his legs over the edge. He noted he was still wearing breeches, but his boots were off. His hands, dry and tar-stained, went to his temples and pressed, trying to allay the hammering inside his skull.

Whatever Sparrow served him, it had to have been distilled in something vile. There was far more than molasses in that rum. He should have known better. He was a fool, just like the rest of them, falling for Sparrow's staggering, absurd guile.

There was no use waiting around in what was obviously Sparrow's cabin -- though God knew why he was in there, but it probably had something to do with that damned rum. Sooner or later someone would fetch him, and anyway, he was better off vomiting over the side of the ship than all over Sparrow's bed. No cleaning involved with the latter option. James stood up, minding his tall frame in the somewhat cramped space. He found his boots after a few moments of searching; one was kicked in front of the bed, the other halfway across the room. He sat back down on the bed to put them on. The ties to his breeches were loose, he did them up quickly, already heading out of the cabin.

The sunlight was harsh, the breeze warm, the waves a steady lurch that normally wouldn't have even entered his awareness. But now, with Sparrow's dark rum swimming in his brain, he could only shudder and reach for a rail to lean against.

He could see, through squinted and aching eyes, Sparrow standing at the middle deck next to Gibbs, talking animatedly. He held a bottle of rum, still mostly full, and it sloshed inside the bottle as he swung his arms to and fro. Good lord, it wasn't even noon. He'd never thought Sparrow to the sort to drink on duty, not so early, despite all the tales of his perpetual drunkenness. James had been at sea long enough to tell true drunkards from other men, and Sparrow had none of the mental decay that went along with misuse of liquor. His aim, his navigation, they were accurate. Even if his bloody compass was broken.

Who knew how long he stood there, trying to right himself so he could begin his duties. He dreaded going to his knees to scrub the planks, or, even worse, going aloft. It must have been a while, for Sparrow eventually ended his conversation with Gibbs and wandered over to James.

"Well, aren't you a sight fer sore eyes." That smirking, gold-filled mouth smiled at him before closing around the neck of the bottle. Two swallows.

He gritted his teeth. "Thanks to your devil's brew."

Sparrow laughed around his mouthful, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You won the game, though. That counts fer something."

"I did, did I?" He had no such memory. In fact, everything disintegrated around the time he took the first drink.

Sparrow's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Aye, you did. I take it you don't remember?"

"Not a thing. It was curious," he continued, voice dipping into a casual tone while Sparrow regarded him, head titled, "waking up in the Captain's cabin. I take it the cook kicked us out of the galley?"

Black eyes regarded him, narrowed and serious. "Christ almighty, you really don't remember." It wasn't a question.

A feeling like dread curdled in his stomach. "Remember what?"

Sparrow beckoned him closer, looking around to make sure no one was about to overhear them. The dread increased. "Ehm." The hand not occupied with holding the bottle came up and twisted one of the braids of Sparrow's beard, contemplative. Or vexed. "Y'see, Norrington, the two of us got into an, um, a delicate… situation."

"Pardon?" he asked blankly.

"Well, what I mean to say is that you and I, me and you… we were --" He gestured incomprehensibly, his arms fluttering. The dread turned into something altogether different.

"You meant to say…"

"Aye, I mean to say."

James drew in a shuddering breath. Sparrow stared at him intently, something in his eyes soft and almost unhappy. "Oh, Christ."

"Now, we didn't get all that far, savvy?" He spoke quickly, apparently trying to soothe. "I was, er, on my knees, and you were going to--"

James backed away. His face burned, and he felt decidedly sicker than he had before. He started to say something, anything, but Sparrow went on.

"You passed out before… I just let you sleep there." He looked away. "You were heavy."

He turned and walked away, headed below. Elizabeth chose just that moment to step directly in his path. "Morning," she offered, though not exactly cheerful. He said nothing.

\---

_You ne'er had that far to fall to begin with._ The words taunted him for hours, even as he stoically rowed to Isla Cruces.

\---

Beckett regarded the heart on the desk between them for a long moment. His eyes flicked to James. "Brandy?" he asked, white fingers tapping the lid of a beautiful crystal decanter. James was distracted by the lace at his cuff.

"No, thank you. I've given up drinking."

Beckett smiled, a flash of crocodile-white teeth, and poured himself a glass. "You are a better man than I."

James smiled back, but it was dark, humorless. "Oh, I highly doubt it."


End file.
